The Historian
by Caira1
Summary: Anath is a survivor of District 4, and has spent years cultivating stories of the war from survivors. She is not a reporter or a sensationalist; her dream is the be a war historian. Her next goal is the ultimate story: The Mockingjay.
1. Chapter 1

The smoothness of the train is enough to put anyone to sleep – it sails along the track like the smoothest ship on the calmest water. I've been dozing thru every train stop in 4 and jerked myself awake as we reached district 11. Most people generally leave the train at this station, and then there's only me and two other people in the car. The map in front of me shows a few more stations in 11 – it's the largest district in Panem, and has half a dozen stations on this track alone – and then it goes on to my final destination.

District 12.

It's been ten years since the revolution. The War. The Battle of the Mockingjay, the Battle at the Capital, the Massacre. I was only a child then, only nine years old, but I remember everything.

I remember how Peacekeepers tried to poison our waters, so that everything we caught would turn our insides into poison and we'd die in agony. The rebels managed to stop them, but some of the poison did leak – it took years for people to determine that the catch was safe again. I remember the smell of rotting fish, and shells cracked open to reveal black insides. We still had to bring in everything suspected of the rot (because that's what it did, it rotted your insides until you died) and left it to bleach in the sun. The smell was atrocious, and the added vomit in the beginning of the sea culling still haunts me at night. I remember how my mother worried that the stench carried hints of poison, and she would check our eyes every morning and every night. Blindness was the first sign that you had the rot.

I remember going to bed hungry every night, and how sometimes the only thing we had to eat was dried seaweed. I don't think I'll ever get the salt out from my teeth – we used to compete to see how green our teeth would be at the end of the week. I remember my baby sister crying for water after chewing on the salty greens; she hated the saltiness. I remember her in her little casket, no longer crying for water. She had snuck out and nibbled on a fish that had washed ashore, not knowing that it had the rot until she woke up and couldn't see our faces. I don't like to think of how she died. My mother died not long after we sent my sister out to sea in her little casket. There was no earth left to bury either of them.

I remember my older sister and how she would hide under jetsam and overturned fishing boats, waiting for Peacekeepers; she was always so good at hiding. No one ever found her – until they did, and they shot in her in the town square with a handful of other rebels. They had set traps in the sand, covered with barbs and poison jabs, and Peacekeepers would fall in and be covered in sand, suffocating and poisoned – like the citizens of Panem. She looked at me and smiled before the bullet blew her head apart. That was the day my father stopped speaking.

The war destroyed my family. No, that's not entirely true. The Capital destroyed my family. The Peacekeepers – what an ironic name – tried to destroy my village, my district. And yet we survived. We are fewer, so much fewer than before the revolution, but half the village survived. Everyone has lost someone – a child, a parent, a friend – but we survived.

In the ten years since, we have come so far; change has been welcome and successful. People have flocked to district 4; some only visit briefly, but some have stayed and become permanent. They brought knowledge with them from their districts, and soon we began to try new farming techniques, design new electronic devices, and create stronger medicines. The medicines is what helped change our whole district.

Our town leader got together with three other leaders, and built the largest hospital in district 4 between them. It primarily offers support and care for the war veterans – people who suffered much worse than I have, and yet still survive. I volunteered for a short while, but I couldn't look at them with indifference. I couldn't not take their stories home with me. I began to write them down, and then record them on a small recorder. I always asked if it was okay first, and many gave their consent – some seemed eager for someone to write down their account of the war. I went on every floor, visited every room, spoke with every patient who could. Some used their hands to sign their stories, like an Avox – their voices destroyed in various horrific reasons. Some would write them down and give them to me – they didn't want to voice what they saw in their districts. I even found a survivor from the Capital; apparently he had had his fingernails painted in solid gold and never found a way to get the metal off until rebels pried them from his fingertips. He wept and showed me his hands, how the nails never grew back.

Everyone suffered. There was no one that the war left untouched.

I published the stories in book I called "The War Districts: Volume 1". I didn't really expect anything to happen from it, but the book sold well in every district and got rave reviews in the Capital, of all places. Letters came from all corners of Panem, asking for me to interview them or simply sending their stories. Everyone had a story to tell – some so horrendous that I couldn't get thru them in one sitting, some with hope and acts of courage and valor and love. A few even made me laugh, which brought a smile to my father's face. He signs that I smile so rarely.

The second volume did better than the first, and a few individuals offered ridiculous amounts of money for me to write about things they found to be important. I turned them all down. I didn't want to write about things I found trivial. I wanted to write as a historian of the war; I wanted to get my stories and my facts as straight from the source as possible. History deserved as much. Civilization, and the survivors, and the future generations deserved as much as well.

So I quietly made arrangements to rent a small room in district 12, packed a suitcase, kissed my father, and boarded a train. District 12 is still tiny – there are only two stations in the whole district still. They seem to have had the harder time of getting back on their feet than the other districts, but I'm determined to see for myself. Furthermore, I'm determined to see them for myself.

Katniss Everdeen. Peeta Mellark.

I'm not leaving until I see them.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I plan to go into canon with some other THG stories on fanfiction, most particularly Belmione's "Worse Games To Play" and SilverCistern's Ashes of District 12 series. Amazing works by amazing writers, I can't praise them enough.

The first thing I notice about district 12 is the smell. The forests are strong and thick here, and this is the only place I've been to that doesn't seem to have the stench of war to it. 12 was the first district to be attacked in the war; the propos showing the devastation from the firebombs is still engraved in my memory. It could have very easily been my district… honestly, it could have been any district. Many towns were razed to the ground – it's incredible how much progress has been made in every district. In 12, the rubble has been cleared for years and the town square is framed with green trees and soft grass. I take a deep breath and feel the clarity of the air fill my lungs.

I don't think I'll mind staying here for awhile.

A man waves at me from the station platform: Thom, the mayor. He used to work in the coal mines until the arena was destroyed in the final Games. He's partly responsible for saving hundreds of lives before the firebombs fell. I know the numbers; the statistics of that night are burned into my brain. Thom has almost single-handedly built up this part of 12, and those who returned were unanimous in electing him as their official. I know that Katniss and Peeta were considered – because of course they would be – but turned it down. After everything they've been thru, I don't think anyone expected them to take up that particular mantle again.

"Anath," Thom says, shaking my hand and smiling. "Welcome to District 12."

"Thank you," I return the smile. "I wouldn't be here without your help."

"Not many people come out here to visit unless there's someone specific," he says. "We get to keep a special kind of peace and quiet here, guess that's a pretty valuable commodity." He takes my bag and begins to walk me down the road that leads to the town square. "We still have plenty of open buildings and houses, but we're growing slow and steady," he says proudly. "Didn't start off with much, but…" He trails off, and I can still see the shadow of war in his eyes. There aren't many direct accounts of what happened in district 12, but everyone knows anyway. I'm brimming with questions to ask him, but I keep most of them to myself.

"You know why I'm here," I say quietly. "But I would love to hear from other residents here – including yourself." Thom looks at me, a little startled. "In the other districts, we have a general idea of what happened here with – with the first bombing. We know the numbers, we know the straight facts-"

"But you want to put a face to the tragedy," he says.

I pause. "I'm not a sensationalist, Thom," is my reply. "With everything that happened during the revolution, there isn't a need for it. I'm a historian. It's not a lovely topic, but it's an important one, and one that won't just fade from people's memory."

He gives me a long look. "I read your first book. Was a bit hesitant at first, I'll admit; don't really see the point in reliving the worst days of my life. But you – you did it right. You did justice to those who talked to you, and I respect that." He gives me a small smile. "Don't know how much you'll be able to kick out here. People in 12 tend to keep to themselves and keep their thoughts closer – it's how you survived back in the bad times, see? One wrong word and you'd be out of a job with your family starving. The habit is ingrained in most of us now."

"I plan on being here for awhile. I'm not here for a quick story, I'm here for-"

We reach the center of the square and Thom stops, forcing me to stop with him. "Anath, I'll be straight with you: I'm not betting on your success here. A lot of reporters have come here before, trying to sniff out a story or get more than a word out of Katniss and Peeta, and they all went home without a thing. They tend to keep to themselves and quite frankly, they deserve that right. I don't think you're the kind to cause trouble, but if I catch wind that you're going too far with either of them, I will ask you to leave on the next train."

We stare at each other, analyzing the other. Thom looks similar to the ranchers I've seen roaming in District 10; his skin is browned and weathered, but his eyes are bright. His pants are stained with mud and dirt, as are his hands and boots. Even as a mayor, he still works outside and in the earth… I can imagine that he never thought he'd get that chance. I watch him take me in: tanned from the sun, with eyes the color of our sea and dark hair. I'm small, smaller than most people I know, but the war left me with strength and words. Words are my weapon, and words are what I use.

"I hear you, Thom," I finally say. "You have my word: any sign of trouble, and I'll leave."

His shoulders relax and he grins at me, showing a missing upper tooth. "I think you'll get along here just fine, Adath. Just be careful, though; mockingjays are very protective of their nests here."

We walk in calm silence to the small house at the end of the square; the green shutters could use a scrub and the pain is peeling in some places, but the roof is sound and the fireplace has been redone. I don't know how many other people have stayed here before, but I doubt that someone did this just for me. Authors, especially those who focus on painful subjects, don't normally get good treatment from strangers.

"Before you ask, the bakery is on the other side of town. Big red tiled roof, 'pastries and breads' across the top. I'd go there first if I were you," Thom says, gently putting down my bag and brushing his hands. "Market meets every second Tuesday, shops are open according to whatever hours they post – although that changes every now and then, of course – and if there's any trouble here, just ask for my wife, Susie. She runs most things concerning visitors." His eyes soften at the mention of his wife and I find myself liking Thom even more.

"Anything else I should know?" I don't want to push too far by accident.

"Go slow," he says seriously. "People here keep things tight. Best way to hear a story is to gain trust. And the more you share, the more you'll likely get back." My stomach tightens at this. I don't share my own war stories; I share others'. Thom must sense my reaction, because he follows with "Everybody has healing to do. Figure here is as good a place as any." He nods his head respectfully to me and turns to leave, closing the door gently behind him.

I don't waste time. I dig thru my bag for my recorder, as small and slim as a pen, and head out the door to the bakery.


	3. Chapter 3

The bakery is situated on the other side of town, but the walk doesn't intimidate me; it gives me time to think of how to approach Peeta Mellark. I have never interviewed a victor before – quite frankly, there are very few left. Enobaria is untouchable, not that I tried very hard to reach her, and Johanna died a few years ago from cancer. It shocked the whole country that someone as young as she would go from cancer, but who knows what she was exposed to while imprisoned and tortured at the Capital. District 7 erected a beautiful monument to her, but I hear that the youths use it for ax-throwing practice. I think she would've loved that.

I did reach out to Annie Cresta – it would've been silly not to, seeing how we both live in the same district – but a telephone call from her son shot that down. Young Killian was very polite, but firm in refusing me to speak with his mother; he told me that my letter to her had sent her into a mild breakdown and he didn't think she would ever be ready to talk about her Games or the War with anyone. I sent them fresh fish and a sincere apology for my tactlessness; they replied back with a small pink shell. That has been the entirety of our communication.

The remaining victors have done an excellent job of evading the press over the years, and most of the country feels they deserve this time of peace and quiet. It's mainly people from the Capital, still after everything, that desperately want to know details of their beloved victors: if they're healed, what they're wearing or styling, what they would advise on daily situations, etc. Anything to escape their own lives for a brief minute, I suppose. While entertainment is slowly making a comeback to the Capital and the districts, there is no one alive who doesn't wonder how the big revolutionaries are doing. It makes me wince as I walk; it will take a lot to convince people that I'm not here for a quick story, that I'm not here to harass or make anyone uncomfortable. I'm here for the truth, as close to it as I can get, so that truth is what goes down in the history books – not the colorful, garbled retelling that the Capital still airs on TV every now and then. When children learn of our history, they should see what really happened. This is my absolute goal.

The front of the bakery brings a small smile to my face: wide glass windows with "Baked Goods" painted in a green flowing script, with decorated edges that could have only been painted by Peeta himself. Tubs inside full of loaves of fresh bread and rolls, pans covered in frosted cookies and sweets, and a beautiful cake decorated to look like meadow with tiny flowers painted on it. The detail is absolutely stunning; there is nothing like this in district 4. I feel as though I could stand here admiring the mastery in this dessert until a customer exits the bakery and a whiff of fresh bread catches me. I take my deep breath, feel my recorder in my pocket, and entire the bakery with a light tinkle of a bell.

A lanky man stands behind the counter, his apron covered in flour and pieces of dough sticking to his knuckles and fingertips. His round glasses cover hazel eyes, and his messy brown hair seems to have been kneaded along with the bread. He towers over me, but I know in an instant that this is a gentle giant. The bow tie is puzzling, though.

He smiles politely at me. "Can I assist you with something today?" He squints, and I stare back. "You're not from around here, are you?"  
"No," I say, holding out my hand. "I'm Anath. I'm visiting from District 4."

He shakes my hand and keeps staring at my face; I'm fighting to keep from blushing under his scrutiny. "You don't say? I hear District 4 is quite a lovely place." He keeps shaking my hand. "I'm Vick. And what brings you to our delightfully quiet piece of the woods?"

"I'm a writer. I came here to write a book."

"A book?" Distrust begins to creep back into his voice and he finally releases my hand. "A book about what? The varying species of trees and environmental ecosystems of Panem? Or perhaps a study on the broken human psyche at the hands of other humans?"  
I curse to myself in my head, but I don't try and hide. "I write about war stories."

"So the latter, then." He folds his arms across his chest. "And I assume you didn't walk in here just for a loaf of bread."

"I'm here to interview people in district 12," I say calmly. "I know many residents returned here after the stay in 13, but no one knows the stories of what happened here except for what was shown in propos. I'm here for a more truthful view than what the Capital likes to display."

"And the real reason? Don't try and convince me that you're not here to try and get a word from Peeta and Katniss, too."

I look him in the eye. "I won't," I say, and he looks a little startled. "But I'm not here solely for them. I know this is his bakery – it's also the only bakery in town. I'm not here to stalk or harass or do anything untoward the Mellarks; goodness knows they deserve better treatment than that. But I'm also not leaving here any time soon, and I'm not leaving until I at least TRY to speak with them."

Vick keeps staring at me. He looks like he wants to be rude but is too polite to commit to it. "I won't help you with that," he finally says. "They've been friends to me and my family for years – hell, Katniss is the reason we didn't starve during my whole childhood. I won't betray their trust."

I nod. "I won't ask you to." A thought occurs to me. "Vick, what's your last name?"

He scowls. "Hawthorne."

I blink in surprise. Hawthorne? Before I can say anything, he spits "Gale is my brother. I'll save you the time from putting it together."

It feels like a flash went off in my head. Gale Hawthorne is in the highest command in District 2 – has been since the end of the war – but it's been quietly known that he is a broken man. I imagine the deaths of hundreds of children (not even counting Primrose Everdeen) makes daily survival a struggle. I can't imagine the ghosts that haunt him. I don't want to. There are enough ghosts following me as it is.

"So you have a story to tell," I say to Vick. "You have a truly unique experience – you survived the Seam, the firebombing, life in District 13, the war itself, and the resurgence of your home. Can you honestly tell me that you don't want to share that?" I pause. "It might help others, knowing that you've done as well as you have."

Vick rubs his chin, thinking. "I've never contemplated it. Most people here already know what happened, seeing how they went thru it too."

I nod. "Most people think that. It's remarkable how the world expands when you hear other people's stories." I pick a loaf of bread from a tub and lay it on the counter. "Please, consider it. I won't bother or pester you, but I'll be back in a week for more bread. If you want to tell me what happened, I would love to sit and listen; if you don't, I understand completely."

He begins to package the bread for me in brown paper, not taking his eyes from me. "What if no one talks?"

I take the bread and give him a small smile. "Then at least someone tried, right?" I pull out some bills and Vick shakes his head.

"First loaf is free," he says, returning my small smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Tuesday arrives before my next trip to the bakery (with another plan in my head), and a knock on my door reveals a woman I don't know. She's a smiling, friendly looking woman who comes up to my shoulder, with braided brown hair and warm brown eyes. She introduces herself as Susie, Thom's wife, and she knows I'm new to 12 and would I like to accompany her to the town market?

I do. I absolutely do.

The market takes place in the center of town, on a small green field. Stalls have popped up overnight and people are selling all manner of things: fresh vegetables, roots, greens, clothes, shoes, premade soups and stews, poultry, squirrel meat, even beef. Susie sees the surprise on my face and smiles.

"We've been having some success with raising cattle," she says. "I know that District 10 is quite well known for that, but once we had a few herds brought out here, they did wonderfully well. Lots of grass, you see." She lowers her voice. "We don't let them stray into the meadow, tho. Think it gives a bad image to see… well…"

She looks away, and I understand why; a big part of the clean-up for this part of the district was the disposal of all the bodies left after the bombing. It took weeks and there was apprehension over sicknesses spreading, but almost all the corpses and skeletons were moved and buried in the meadow. Years of nature taking its course has left the meadow looking lush and green and beautiful, but everyone knows that it's just a fragrant mass grave. I could only walk past it once without the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

I wonder if they will tell new generations about it.

Susie points to another couple of stalls, these ones with rolls of earthy wool and bright cotton fabrics and stacks of already made clothes. "This is actually pretty new. We got a hand-me-down system going for awhile, but at some point everyone needs new clothes, you see? We still buy quite a bit from outside the district, but we had a craftsman from 8 come out and taught some of us how to weave our own cotton and wool. We buy the raw material most of the time, add certain colors and textures we find on our own out here, and have our own unique fabric." She looks quite proud about this, and I can't blame her.

"Did you learn how to spin?" I ask.  
"Sure did," she grins. "We've got a few other fabrics from 8, but all of our cotton comes from our own district. Quite a change from before."

"You grew up in 13, correct?"

She nods. "Never thought I'd see a color that wasn't tinged with grey. District 13 didn't really hold with bright colors or anything that went against uniform. I didn't see my first dandelion until I was practically a teenager. Don't think I ever saw a child coloring in 13 that didn't run low on the black color first." She looks sad for a moment, then brightens. "And now look at us – if I don't wear a stitch of that grey jumpsuit again, it'll be too soon!"

She waves to other vendors as I take down this information in my head. Back home in 4, color was all you'd see; the waves would change colors by the second, with shells and flowers and all manner of tropical hues and smells. I can't imagine living in a world where grey is the color of life. Looking at Susie, I can't imagine her in the stiff grey jumpsuit I've seen from pictures of 13's residents. She wears splashes of color as happily as a child, and it makes me feel happy as I see her receive waves and cheerful greetings from the vendors. Her connections are making it easier for other people to not view me as an outsider. Some still shoot me slightly suspicious looks, but the general trust for Susie seems to mellow most of them.

Susie takes my arm and drags me over to a short curvy woman who's sniffing a various dried herbs, her eyebrows creased with focus. "Anath, this is Sage," she says, tapping the woman's shoulder. "She's our local and trusting physician. Sage, you need to meet our newest visitor from district 4."

Sage gives me a hard look and I almost take a step back. She can't be older than I am, but I can tell right away that she has a healer's hands. Her hair is swept back into a tight bun, and her eyes are such a dark blue that they almost appear to be black. She carries a small basket full of herbs and medicinal greens, and I wonder if this is her primary source of medical treatments – I shake the thought away, but she narrows her eyes at me. She is utterly intimidating, despite her stature.

"Any reason why you're here in particular?" she asks. Sage is polite but curt, as though she clearly has other things she should be doing than chatting up a tourist.

"I'm here to write a book," I say, not breaking eye contact.

Sage snorts. "I can only guess at the contents. Seen any mockingjays lately, or have they all hidden away in their nests?"

I feel a heat climb into my cheeks; she's trying to antagonize me and I don't particularly like it. "I'm not searching for mockingjays right now, I'm searching for any other birds who want to sing."

She snorts but loses some of hostility. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find a bird or two," she says, turning back to the stall. She grabs a clump of dried flowers and thrusts them at me. "Does this look like chamomile to you?"

"I don't know," I say, embarrassed. "I only know it from the powder, not the flowers."  
"Best remember," she says. "Chamomile is good for stress, particularly in tea. Lavender too, if you can find it."  
I try to change the subject. "How long have you been a doctor?"

She shrugs, searching thru her bag. "Went to school in District 6 after the war, practiced in my hometown for a short while, came out here about 2 years ago."

"So you must use a lot of herbal remedies here?"

She gives me a sharp look, as though she knows what I'm vaguely fishing for. "My clinic is stocked with Capital medicines as well as herbs. Willow bark won't cure everything and I make sure my patients live, thank you." She takes the chamomile and nods towards Susie, who seems to be stunned in silence, then turns to me. "Don't bother looking for mockingjays here today; she probably won't be around here for awhile and he never comes by."

Sage walks off and I'm left standing in her wake, feeling for all the world like a child who got scolded in front of an audience of strangers. I fight the blush still in my cheeks; I've been spoken to much worse than this and I have no intention of letting Sage get to me. I take a deep breath and turn to Susie, who looks slightly worried.

"She seems nice," I say drily, and Susie laughs.

"She's a tough one," she says with a grin. "But she's got a good heart and we haven't lost a single person under her care – I think she treats them with sass until they're back in health." This gets a chuckle out of me. "She's a protective sort – keeps to herself but would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it."

I look off in Sage's direction. Contrary to wanting to avoid her, I want to speak with her again. I guess I better start looking for wild chamomile.


	5. Chapter 5

In the next 2 weeks, I manage to wrangle a few stories from a handful of vendors I met on that first market day. It started with an old woman who calls herself Greasy Sae – I don't think I've ever met anyone as old as she – but when others see her talking and walking with me, they seem much more open to speaking with me. Sae holds a lot of sway in the community, I see. 4 others follow in her footsteps, and I don't need their recordings to remember every exact word they tell me. The stories are stamped in my brain with the dozens, if not hundreds more, already there.

Sae tells me how her daughter lived in terror of her granddaughter being killed by the Peacekeepers for something she didn't understand – her granddaughter was born simple, she explains, and didn't always understand what the Peacekeepers were here for. She tells me how, when she was a girl, a simple boy had gone up and tried to touch a Peacekeeper's gun – maybe he thought it was a toy or something – and he was shot on the spot. Her granddaughter would wander off in the Hob and Sae would be terrified that the next thing she'd hear would be a gunshot. She points out her granddaughter to me: a tall girl with long dirty braids, slightly hutched over with a cloth doll in her hands, her grey eyes glassy and uncomprehending. Her mother died in the bombing, Sae says; she's all the family she has left. She's as harmless as a kitten.

A young woman with a small pregnant belly quietly tells me how she grew up in 13 and how, one time when she was a child, she was caught trying to smuggle out a piece of bread to feed a wild rabbit she had seen just outside the compound. Command had found out, found the rabbit, and broke its neck in front of her. She had been forced to skin and butcher the animal in front of guards, something she had never done before. She wipes away a tear and says "I know it sound silly in the face of everything that happened, but I've never been able to eat or smell cooked rabbit again. It brings back the blood on my hands." She meets my eye. "You can't really understand 13 unless you were born and raised there. How it felt to always feel slightly hungry, because they would weigh you every week and give you rations to the exact measurement: always enough to keep you til the next meal, never enough to feel full. Trying to smuggle food from the dining hall was forbidden and punished, and you don't want to know the threats they gave if you even THOUGHT about taking someone else's rations." She pauses, swallows, and smiles. "I didn't believe I'd ever be able to eat what I pleased, as much as I wanted, in my whole life. 13 kept us alive, but it didn't give much in terms of tenderness or comfort. Stark survival was all that mattered."

An older man sits under a tree with me, closes his eyes, and tells me about the night the firebombs fell on district 12. He and his family had lived above a small clothing shop in the merchant section, and he had just put his youngest son to bed when the first bomb fell on the bakery – less than a block away from him. "The whole world was fire," he recalls, his eyes still closed tightly. I can almost see the flames flickering behind his eyelids. "I grabbed my two boys, and my wife went to grab my girl, and then we saw the Justice Building – this big ol' stone building that had been part of my life as much as my parents had been – be blown into pieces. I couldn't grab her hand, my arms were too full, and we got separated." He takes a shaky breath. "I lost her. My little girl turned back to save her toy, my wife went with her, and the bomb dropped in the town square. They were hear one second, and ashes the next." He rolls up one of his sleeves and shows me the deep burn scars mutilating his skin. "Heat was so hot it burned my bones. I dropped my sons, both of them screaming in pain. I smelled them burning." Tears are flowing. "I had to pick them up again and run to the Seam – that's where everyone was going. We were the last ones to make it from the merchant area. My youngest died in my arms in that meadow – the burns were just too much for him. My last boy held on, mainly thanks to the Everdeens, but he died before the hovercrafts came." He opens his eyes and sees my tears matching his own. "I wanted to blame Katniss, I wanted to blame the victors and that Gamemaker who got away. I wanted to burn down every Capital building and watch those puffed-up preeners turn to ash like my family did. But I saw her… I saw Katniss in the hospital ward. And I couldn't blame her, or hate her. She was as lost and broken as I was. As many of us were."

I hold out my hand in a rare gesture – I don't normally touch people – and he grasps my fingers and gives them a squeeze. He stands up, nods to me once, and walks away.

I drank a whole bottle of dark rum that night. It was the first time in a long time that I needed alcohol to mute the screams in my head.

More stories fall into my lap, more people speak to me when I walk thru town or around the small school or near the tree line. Word seems to spread that I'm not here to hear some horror stories and run off; I'm not here to profit off of the pain of others, although I know it's been said about me before. I run out of rum, I run out of the smoking grass that empties my mind and stops the tremor in my hand, and I write to my father asking for more – along with more recording chips. At this rate, I may be able to write a whole book with the stories I hear from here.

Towards the end of my third week, I somehow end up on the edge of the meadow at sunset. I've seen many sunsets on the sea and on land in 4, but never with mountains like here. They turn a deep purple color, with the sky turning a beautiful gold; the clouds are tinted in shades of cream and lavender, and the trees make the whole world smell clean. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the calm invade me. It feels so good to let my guard down for a moment.

"How often do you come here?"

There goes my calm. I whip around and there is Sage, standing with her feet planted and her hands on her hips… but she doesn't look angry or confrontational. Instead, she seems to be looking at me for the first time.

"Not often," I reply. "This is the first sunset I've seen from here."

"Too many ghosts scaring you away?" she asks. I listen for any sarcasm but I don't hear it.

"Ghosts don't scare me. Not anymore."

She nods, then takes a few steps forward until we're standing next to each other. We look at the sky together, purposefully avoiding the other. This isn't my most uncomfortable moment, but I'm far from at ease. Sage puts me on alert without even trying.

"I always wondered what people saw in the other districts," she says out of nowhere. "Not from any desire to hear of more torture, just… curiosity, I suppose."

I keep my eyes on the darkening sky. "I met a lot of people in the big hospital in 4. People with mental disorders from the war, people permanently damaged… in a lot of ways. One of the things that seemed to make most people feel better was talking, even if it wasn't about the war or the bad times."

"I read your first book," she says, and I turn to look at her in surprise. "Came on the same train you did – Thom's terrible about keeping his trap shut about visitors, and I always do my research." Her eyes turn sad. "I hated it. Not that it wasn't good writing or anything. It just makes you feel better and worse about what you went thru yourself."

I nod. "Sometimes."

"How come your story isn't in there?"

"How do you know it isn't?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "I can tell, that's all. How come you don't have any from district 6 in there?"

I think frantically; did I not meet a single person from 6? Must not have. There's no face or word that pops into my mind, confirming that Sage is right. I've missed more than just one district.

"Maybe there's a few in the second volume," I hedge. "I haven't visited 6 yet but I'm sure there's got to be someone I've spoken to from there."

"Well, you certainly have now," Sage says crisply. "And you certainly can't go any further without having them represented." She turns away and starts walking, leaving me staring at her retreating back. She turns and glares at me. "I'm not standing around in the dark telling a ghost story, you goon. Now, follow."


	6. Chapter 6

Sage lives above the small doctor's office on the road to town; it's small, but well stocked and comfortable. I see the blue walls and immediately feel a little more relaxed – I know this is basic color psychology (certain colors can heighten certain emotions), but it seems to work nicely.

She points to a small desk. "Sit. I'll grab some tea."

She heads upstairs and I take the time to look around and really study this floor. Most of the area is two rows of single person beds, with crisp clean sheets and soft pillows. There are machines crammed in every corner, and every bed has a small bag filled with a collection of medical supplies: large and small bandages, swabs, cotton. I don't see any liquid, which proves that Sage isn't stupid enough to trust anyone not to steal anything that could be dangerous. There's a large cabinet filled with dozens and dozens of small and medium sized vials behind her desk, and I can barely pronounce some of the names. Next to it is a smaller cabinet filled with dried herbs, flowers, and roots – the natural medicine of the district. A part of me nods to her willingness to have a foot in both sides of the medicinal realm.

Sage returns with a tray carrying two tea cups and a steaming teapot. There's a small bowl with a few sugar cubes and another with some milk. "Don't know how you take your tea," she says, placing the tray on the desk gently. "I find a little bit of milk with some of this makes it taste much better." She sits on the other side of the desk and takes her cup. She lifts it in my direction. "Cheers, or something."

I sip the fragrant lemon-scented tea. She's right, the milk does add something to it. "Thank you."

She nods curtly. I find that everything Sage does is quick and to the point. "So I imagine now is when I start talking, yeah?"

I pull out my recorder. "Can I record this?"

She raises an eyebrow. "I imagine you already are, or else you'd be repeating yourself quite frequently to have a record of consent."

I blush a little; most people aren't aware of the actual recording device, but I always ask for permission. Consent is crucial to truth. "I can stop and erase now if you're not-"

"I, Sage McKey, give my consent for you record whatever happens to spill from my mouth," she says loudly. "Any other recording of my voice is clearly not me and must be a fabulous imposter."

A smile twitches on my lips and Sage tries to hide hers too.

"I was born and raised in District 6," she says, beginning her story. "District 6 is the transportation district, or it was, and that always seems to confuse people. Basically, we were a district of mechanics and engineers – if something breaks or needs to be designed, and it needs to move, we were the ones who got the job." Her eyes soften briefly. "My parents were both mechanics, mainly with hovercrafts. My mom was pretty small, so she was almost always the one to have to go into tight and dangerous places. It was the most dangerous work, but it had the best pay… doesn't offer much if there's loss of life or limb tho." The muscles in her face tighten. "I'd rather not go into detail over how she died, but let's just leave it at a year before the War started. I was 9 years old."

"I'm so sorry," I say softly.

She waves my words away. "It was a long time ago. Nearly destroyed my father, but when heard about the rebellions starting to happen, he threw himself into it. I guess he blamed the Capital for her death – since it was their hovercrafts and all – and he was damn handy. Smartest man I ever knew." She taps a fingernail on the side of the teacup, lost in her memories. "He never talked about what they planned on doing to me… didn't think that I, being a kid and all, should know about how lethal the whole thing was. And if something happened to him, I'd be safe in my little ignorant bubble. They weren't above torturing children, but it's easy to tell when someone knows nothing." Her finger stills. "I found out later that my father had learned how to create bombs, and had been hiding them in the panels of the hovercrafts. One push of a certain button on the control panel would blow the thing right out of the sky. Problem is that you don't control when the bomb goes off, or who's inside when it does. He destroyed more than a dozen Capital hovercrafts, but one of them was carrying children from District 2. It was a horror show."

She pauses, taking a sip of tea while I sit and try not to imagine what an exploding hovercraft full of children looks like. I feel like I'll need a lot of rum to get thru tonight.

"My father killed himself," she says flatly, and I zero in on her once more. "Once word reached us about what happened… he put a gun in his mouth. He left a will and a note, which was so kind-" Her words are hard as granite. "-explaining why he did was he did. He left me everything, but of course, they don't give houses to kids. I was moved to a house with a dozen orphaned kids and one adult trying not to lose her mind during the rest of the Revolution." She looks away from me. "I hate my father for what he did."

The silence hangs heavy in the air, and Sage doesn't seem willing to keep talking. A thought occurs to me. "As a child, how did seeing revolutionaries effect you?"

Sage snorts. "They were as terrible as monsters and yet as real as the kid standing next to me. I remember those propos – seeing the deadly Katniss Everdeen and handsome Finnick Odair and the tributes to other dead Victors and Tributes. It was all we ever saw as kids. I used to dream about these people storming our streets and killing us – it was all the fears of being reaped and killed in an Arena, but with nowhere to hide or wake up." She taps her teacup again. "Knowing what I do now – knowing Katniss and Peeta as I do now, however small – always shows me what was wrong with those propos. I've heard all about Peeta's damaged brain, sometimes I swear I can hear Katniss screaming at night. They weren't these larger-than-life heroes; they were scared, damaged kids who had no business being put where they were forced." She takes a last sip of her cup and looks me right in the eye. "No one escapes the war unscathed."

I hear a quiet thud behind me, and Sage looks beyond me; her eyes widen slightly and she goes still. I turn around and it's all I can do not to make a sound.

Katniss Everdeen, now Katniss Mellark, is standing in the doorway with a small gathering bag in her hand and a knife on her belt. And her grey eyes are narrowed at me like I'm one of the Capital's mutts.  
"Oh, shit," Sage whispers.


	7. Chapter 7

"Oh, shit."

Sage's swear flits around my brain as the Mockingjay and I stare at her. She's small, smaller than I thought she'd be, but with long legs and a hunter's reflexes and strength. Her hair is still braided, and I can see scars on the backs of her hands and the base of her neck. What I can't look away from are her eyes: grey as fire smoke, and dark with anger. I think I see her hand twitch towards the knife on her belt, and she drops the bag on the floor and sprints out.

I don't know why I leap out of my chair and run after her. I doubt anyone has been able to catch Katniss since she first started walking, but I feel an urgent desperation to catch her. To explain myself, to tell her that I'm not some Capital fangirl here to stalk her. I'm desperate to justify why I'm here.

The growing dark is on her side, and I can barely make out her outline as she sprints away from the town and towards Victors Village. I don't know if anyone sees our chase, but I'm praying they don't; would this be enough for Thom to send me packing? Adrenaline races thru me and I pick up my pace, kicking up dirt and dust as I start to catch up to her.

She sprints into the victors home and I screech to a stop beneath the large sign. Katniss doesn't stop, and rushes to the second house on the left and slams the door behind her. I don't follow; I don't walk up and knock on her front door. The dirty wire fence is like a repellant to me – I can't cross into this section of 12. I can't make myself do it; it feels like I'm invading whatever space they managed to make safe for themselves. I curse under my breath.

A rusty cackle makes me turn to the right, and an older man sits on his front porch cackling to himself at my expense. He holds a clear bottle in his hand, half the liquid already gone, and it doesn't take me half a second to recognize his hard grey eyes.

"Mr. Abernathy," I nod to him, trying to maintain an air of respect, and he just laughs harder.

"Girl, you're lucky she didn't just turn around and wing that knife into your eye," he says, wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. "Better hope that she's not readying to shoot you from a bedroom."

I whip around to look at Katniss's house, but it seems fairly dark. Haymitch cackles at me again, and I feel an angry prickle on the back of my neck.

"She ever shoot at you before?" I snap at him, and he grins.

"Never been so drunk that I would answer a reporter," he says, and takes another drink from the bottle. "Not even one as pretty as you."

"I'm not a reporter," I say angrily. "I'm a historian."

"You're a coywolf sniffing around the ruins for something juicy to tear apart," he shoots back. "That's all writers ever are. Don't matter what they write about. You're all vultures looking for bones to pick."

I fight not to flinch. I've had worse said to me before, but never by a Victor, and I'm horrified to feel tears in the back of my eyes. I won't cry in front of Haymitch Abernathy. I refuse to.

"Good runner," he says with a nod in my direction. "That's the closest I've seen to someone almost catching her."

"I'm so grateful for your opinion," I say sarcastically, glaring at him. Haymitch seems to enjoy needling me, and he grins again. I try not to count how many teeth are missing now.

"Listen, girl, I'm sure you come here with plenty of high and mighty qualities," he says, standing up and cracking his back. "But whatever you're really here for, you're not gonna get. Take what you've already got and go back to wherever it is you came from."

"I'm not going back to 4," I spit at him.

He perks up. "District 4, huh? Here they have good rum."

I stare at him in disbelief. He takes another swig from the bottle, then throws it against the side of the house. The sound of glass breaking makes me twitch away, but I keep my eyes trained on Haymitch.

"Are you inviting me to be your drinking buddy?"

He cackles again, then turns and slouches inside his home. A brief peek makes me wonder if anyone has cleaned the inside of that house in years. I swear I could catch a whiff of vomit while still being meters away.

I look back at Katniss's house one last time, then begin walking back to Sage's. The moon is starting to rise now, bright and almost completely full, and the path is illuminated. The crickets are chirping louder than I've ever heard before, and I take a deep breath. District 12 is one of the most calming places I've ever been. Only the sound of the waves can make me feel fully peaceful, but this isn't bad either.

Sage is waiting at the door for me. "Thought you'd have an arrow in you," she says bluntly. "Had everything set up for surgery."

I shrug. "Not today, I guess."

She hands me my recorder. "Try not to get shot on your way home." And she closes the door with a grin.

I trudge back to my little house, trying to convince myself that people aren't looking at me from their windows and that there's no one following me with a knife or a bow. I keep taking deep breaths to keep my anxiety from breaking, and I finally get inside and bolt the door behind me.

I've just placed my recorder in it's case when there's a solid knock on the door, and I freeze. Is it Thom? Is he making me leave? Did Katniss already contact him and demand that I be shipped home? My hands are trembling as I open the front door.

And come face-to-face with Peeta Mellark.


	8. Chapter 8

"Oh, shit."

Sage's curse passes my mouth and Peeta's eyebrows go up in surprise. I could kick myself. Peeta is tall in my doorway (probably tall in most doorways) with broad shoulders and thick arms covered in burns – from the bakery or the war, I really don't know. Perhaps both. The muscles look so much more threatening when they're crossed over his chest, but his blue eyes are calm and his stance is more relaxed than alert. The only change from when I first saw him on tv are the faint lines on his forehead and around his mouth, and maybe a slight thinning of his blonde curls.

I realize that we've been standing and staring at each other in awkward silence, and I once again curse – but in my head.

"I assume you know who I am?" Peeta asks.

"Yes," I say quickly. "Yes, Mr. Mellark, yes, I know you." I've lost all my calm tonight and I hate how frazzled I sound.

"That's good, but I don't know who you are," he says gently.

I hold out my hand, and he shakes it. "Anath, from District 4. I've been staying here for a few weeks-"

"Gathering stories," he finishes. "I heard about that."

There's another awkward pause, and I realize that maybe making a Victor and a war hero stand outside your door for a conversation is rude. "Would you like to come in?"

He shakes his head. "That's kind of you, but I don't think this will take long." He gives me a small smile. "I heard that my wife ran into you today. And that you chased her."

The heat rushes back to my face. "Yes. To both of those."  
He nods to himself. "As a word of advice, I wouldn't do that again. If Katniss runs, it means she doesn't want to be caught. And if you catch her, you'd wish you hadn't."

Coming from anyone else, this would sound like a threat. Coming from Peeta, so gentle and matter-of-fact, it's as if someone is explaining that fish breathe underwater. "I wasn't thinking," I say, squirming a little. "She came in while I was interviewing Sage, and I think it upset her. I chased her… well, I wanted to apologize. For making her upset, or uncomfortable, or anything. I'm sorry." I feel like a child who got caught spying. "I wanted to explain myself."

"Let me explain something about Katniss," Peeta says, still in that gentle tone that makes me feel more guilty. "When it first reached us that a reporter was coming out here to interview us about… well, everything… she didn't take it well. I won't go into details, but there's a reason you haven't seen her around town or near the meadow. She doesn't want to talk about the Games, or the revolution, or the deaths. They already haunt her enough as it is." He takes a deep breath. "We know that you came out here to interview us. It's a small town and word travels fast when there's change. I know you came with good intentions, but I'm telling you –not asking, telling – to drop it."

The breath rushes out of my lungs, and my stomach tightens. A part of me wants to give in and desperately reassure Peeta that I will drop my life's goal immediately, but I can't. My determination and ambition got me to this point, and I can't give in just yet.

"Wait right here," I say, and he nods. I run to my bedroom and kick open my bag. At the bottom is a copy of my first volume – my first interviews with the patients in the hospital, the months of recordings and notes and nightmares. I don't know why I always travel with this copy, but I do. Perhaps it's like a security blanket of some sort.

Peeta is still standing in the doorway, patiently waiting for me. I almost throw the book against his chest and he looks at me in surprise. I pray that I haven't inadvertently thrown him into the beginning of an episode, or a flashback, or whatever he goes thru, but right now I'm not thinking clearly and desperation is making me impulsive.

"This is what I do," I spit, trying to keep my anger at bay and not quite succeeding. "To make things perfectly clear, I AM NOT A REPORTER. I'm not a gossip, I'm not a story-teller, I don't make things up or elaborate to make events more horrific. I'm a war historian. I interview people who have gone thru the worst moments of their lives, people who survived by the skin of their teeth, and I share their stories. Not to make me famous, or popular, but to help others." My eyes are welling up and I can't stop them. "I don't think you know exactly what happened in my district during the revolution, or the war, or any time after that. I don't think you know what happened in many other districts during those times. Most people don't. I want people to read these stories and find that if someone could make it thru the truly horrific times, then they can survive theirs. I don't live thru their terrors and mind-shattering grief for the pleasure of it; I have to drink and smoke and avoid sleep so that I don't relive their memories. But someone has to. SOMEONE has to remember everything that happened, in all corners of Panem. SOMEONE has to preserve both the good and the bad, and share truth, and not let the lies and false stories become our history." I'm practically sobbing now, and I don't think I've said this much to one person in years. But I can't seem to stop. "Read this. See who I am, and what I do. And if you think I shouldn't be here after all, I'll pack up my things and be on the next train out of the district. But please… just read this."

Peeta is looking down at the cover of my book, my most precious object in the world, and he seems to be fighting back something. I don't know if it's tears or tremors or memories, but he's not shouting back at me and I figure that that's a good sign. Shame floods thru me as I realize that I have shrieked and cried at Peeta Mellark, of all the people in the world, and I wish I could sink into the floor.  
"I'm sorry-"

"I'll read it," he says quietly, still not looking at me. "I can't bring this home – you understand, I think it would upset Katniss too much – but I'll take it to the bakery and I'll read it when I can." He finally lifts his head and meets my eyes. "I can't promise anything, but I'll try to understand. I'm sorry that I upset you."

I shake my head. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

Peeta nods, then takes a step back. "I promise I won't let anything bad happen to it," he says, holding my book close.

"Thank you," I say quietly, and Peeta Mellark turns away and starts walking in the direction of the bakery.

I end up locking every door and every window tightly, and spend the night with a bottle of rum and a recording of the waves crashing on the beach.


	9. Chapter 9

When I was a child, I once got caught in a rip tide. The powerful current had carried me far from shore before anyone noticed, and I watched people panic from shore as I slowly began to drown. I sank beneath the waves, my legs heavy from kicking and struggling to stay afloat, and my last memory was of a fisherman's hand reaching down and grabbing my arm. My father used to tell me that I was pulled out of the ocean without breath, but that luck and skill had given it back to me. Luck and skill had saved my life.

I don't know if luck and skill will keep me alive now, though.

I stop going out searching for interviews. A few people come to me, and I record their stories and relive the worst moments of their lives, but I become close to a hermit. I plead with Susie that I'm not feeling well and she's kind enough to get me meals from the town square; she asks worriedly if she should bring Sage over, but I reassure her that I just need rest. She doesn't know me well enough to know that I'm drowning.

I begin to chronicle and draft the recordings, and even though there really aren't that many, the stories seem to pack a much more powerful kick than I initially remember. I quickly run out of rum and smokes, and I write to Father begging him to send me more; I don't dare try and track down alcohol in the town market. He sends me a small supply of rum, but nothing to smoke, and I grit my teeth and try to feel thankful that he hasn't left me entirely without something to keep me afloat. He sends a small note, begging me to be careful and come home if it becomes too much and that he loves me. I don't need to drink that night.

The days are manageable, but the nights have quickly become unbearable, and I find myself in the grey area of being exhausted to the brink of insanity and yet terrified to sleep for longer than an hour or so at a time. In district 4, the waves crashing against the rocks would help muffle any nighttime cries that would alarm a neighbor or two. Gulls and bells and horns added to the cacophony, and my older sister used to joke about going deaf in her sleep when the big ships would come into the harbor. When I first started having nightmares, no one would hear me, and I would rest easy knowing that my terrors would remain solely mine – not a burden for someone else to carry.

In district 12, the silence is definite. The insects and occasional sound of a bird or howl of a wild dog are positively tame, and I live in a quiet terror of making a peep in the dark. I hate the idea of others hearing my pain – even though most would be completely understanding and not say a word about it. I keep it to myself, huddle around it like a tiny flame in the snow, and do whatever I can to keep others from acknowledging it. It's an odd coping mechanism, and certainly not a healthy one, but I don't know another way.

Once the stories are safely stored in memory chips, I have nothing to try and occupy my nights. I find some thread and begin weaving nets, with such care and precision that no fish could ever escape my trap. I fold dozens and dozens of pieces of paper into small animals, and boxes, and flowers. I try to avoid drinking enough rum to black out, and some nights I succeed without tasting a single drop. But some nights all I can hear are flames, and children screaming, and my older sister's skull being crushed by a bullet and my younger sister gurgling up black vomit. On those nights, the rum is salty with tears and I ache to be near the sea again.

I go by the bakery once after two weeks, hesitant to run into Peeta again. When I see Vick behind the counter, I breathe a sigh of relief and go in. He looks up with a smile, and then it disappears into shock.

"What happened to you?" is his welcoming exclamation.

I stare at him, nonplussed. "I ran out of bread?"

"Have you been sick? Are you infectious?"

"What? No!"

"Anath, you look like death," he says without rancor. He reaches across the counter, grabs my wrist, and pulls me thru the small swinging door and into a back room before I can protest. He drags me in front of a small mirror and points. "Look at yourself!"

I don't recognize the ragged woman in the reflection. Dark circles bag under my eyes, which are red and foggy with pain. Under the lifelong tan, my skin looks pale and clammy, and I've clearly lost weight without meaning to. My hair is tied back in an attempt to contain it, but the tangles and lack of care are still evident. I look like I'm half dead.

I look like I did during the revolution.

"What happened to you?" Vick asks again, this time much more gently.

I shake my head mutely, swallowing back an unwanted tear. I've cried enough these past nights. My sorrows won't see daylight.

Vick shakes his head. "Makes me wonder if something is going around," he says, half to himself. "First Peeta, then you…"

"Peeta?" I ask. "Something happened to Peeta?"

Vick squirms, looking uncomfortable. "He… well, he had an episode a few days ago. Here, in the bakery, which isn't usual."

I stare at him blankly. "An episode?"

Vick pales a little at my confusion. "Oh damn, I forgot… you don't know. And it's not my place to say… oh, damn." He grits his teeth in agitation. "Listen, what do you know about Peeta and his… well, his injury?"

I think for a moment. "I know that he was tortured in the Capital after the 75th games, the Quell," I say. "I know that he was beaten and abused in multiple ways, according to Plutarch's interviews. I know that he was hijacked… injected with tracker jacker venom and his memories changed. I know that while he's functioning much better, he'll never fully heal." I frown. "I've never heard anything about episodes or seizures or-"

"Peeta has flashbacks," Vick interrupts. "Not very often anymore, but every now and then something triggers him, reminds him of something that happens. Sometimes it's just for a minute or two, and he spaces out but comes back. Other times, he's literally on the ground and… it's awful." He sees the shock on my face. "No one outside the district knows what happens. If anyone finds out, and it's because of you…"

"This is off the record," I say immediately, still taking in the enormity of what Vick has told me. "I would never… I had no idea."

Vick shrugs. "Just keep it to yourself. I don't know what triggered him, but it was pretty rough, and he's been out ever since."

A horrible thought occurs to me. "Vick? It happened here?"

"Yeah."

"Were you here too? Was he doing something different before it happened?" I take a shaky breath. "Was he reading a book?"

Vick gives me a funny look. "I mean, I've seen him reading around here before. That's not out of the ordinary for him unless it's a busy day or there's a special order."

I feel like my lungs are shrinking. "Vick…" My hands start to tremble. "Vick, I think this may be my fault."


	10. Chapter 10

"That's ridiculous," Vick says flatly. "Why are you so eager to make this your fault?"

I take a shaky breath. "He came to my door… he asked me to drop the idea of interviewing him and Katniss," I say shakily, trying to keep the panic from my voice. "I gave him my book, my first book, and asked him to consider. He took it with him – I didn't think – I didn't think it would cause him to have a mental breakdown!"

Vick puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me into a chair. "First of all, sit down before you fall down. Second of all, Peeta's had episodes for a long time now, and while I'm not completely saying that your book triggered it, it's a possibility. But-" He gives a squeeze on my shoulders, keeping me upright. "But, his episodes aren't that simple. Sometimes it's something as simple as the sound of a bee buzzing around, and he loses it. Almost all of his episodes are somehow related to the Games, and the Revolution, and what he went thru in the Capital as a prisoner and as a soldier. But sometimes he just loses it for no clear reason – he doesn't like to talk about them after the fact."

My hands grip the seat of the chair. "My book was full of things that could've set him off!" I exclaim. "How can you say that it may not have been the cause?"

"Because it's not all evil in there," he says patiently. "I've been flipping thru it since he's been out, and not all of them are torture stories. There are memories of happy families, amazing accomplishments, that kind of thing."

"Those can hurt just as bad," I say softly.

Vick shrugs. "Don't I know it," is all he says.

We share a few moments of silence: me in my chair, trying desperately not to curl up into a ball, and him standing with his arms crossed, lost in his own memories. What an odd pair we are.

"I need to apologize to him," I finally say.

"You're going to wait," he says back without hesitation. "The next time he's here, working and baking and feeling fine, then you can talk and make your apologies. This isn't the time to push."

I nod; he's absolutely right.

"Sit for a little longer," he says, more gently now. "I need to check on the front and see that we haven't been robbed blind."

I nod again, and he leaves. I take a deep breath, forcing the calm as well as the air into my lungs. While I can't rid myself of the blame that I caused this most recent flashback, I know there must be a way to make it right. To apologize. An action is still an action, whether it's done deliberately or not. I'm determined to make this right.

The back door slams open and I jump at the sound. I can feel the blood leave my face as Katniss Mellark stands framed in the doorway, looking right at me. She's scowling at me as though I was a Capital monster than tortured her husband… and that may not be too far off. I wonder if she knew that I was here and came for me specifically.

"You," she growls. I stare back, trying not to let her intimidate me thru presence alone. I don't think I'm succeeding. "You," she says again, taking a step inside and making my pulse jump.

"Mrs. Mellark," I say quietly, trying to sound calm.

She glares. "That was yours, wasn't it? The book was yours, wasn't it?"

She may kill me. I nod once. "Yes. It's mine. I gave it to Peeta to read."

Katniss seems to puff up with anger, but is still keeping her voice low. "And it didn't occur to you, EVER, that that would have been a bad idea?"

"I didn't mean to-"

"It doesn't matter what you meant!" she hisses at me, and I genuinely fear that she's going to strike me. "You didn't think! You didn't stop and take one damn moment to think, and you sent him into hallucinations and flashbacks of – of everything!"

I can't hide my trembling now. "Please, I didn't mean – I didn't know-"

"Everyone knows!" she shouts, and I flinch back. "Everyone knows what happened to him! You could have been an infant and you still would have known what they did to Peeta!" She glares at me. "I think you did this on purpose. I don't know why anyone would, why ANYONE would think that it's okay to torture someone who's already been thru so much-"

"Katniss!" It's Vick, and he stands beside me while I'm paralyzed with fear. "Katniss, she didn't know about his episodes, she didn't know that it could cause one to happen."

Katniss glares at Vick now, but he doesn't step back.

"Please," I choke back a sob. "It was thoughtless of me. It was stupid, and there's no excuse, and I'm so sorry." I can't even meet her gaze. "I didn't think… I'm so sorry, please, I'm so sorry…"

"Damn, Katniss, since when do you go off terrifying people into a mess like this?" Vick says coldly to her. I don't know how he dares. "Since when do you pick on kids for mistakes?"

She doesn't say a word; she just turns on her heel and slams the door behind her. I flinch again, and I hide my face in my hands, unable to stop the trembling. Katniss Mellark is a terrifying woman when she's angry.

"Well, that went well," Vick says flatly.


	11. Chapter 11

"Well now, look whose walking and talking after all."

I'm standing outside of Sage's front door, the memory of my confrontation with Katniss yesterday still fresh in my mind. I didn't sleep. I need to sleep. I don't think I should trust sleep.

"Word travels faster than I thought," I say, trying to be wry but just sounding exhausted.

"The whole town heard what she was hollering, I would think," she replies, smirking. "I'm pretty sure I warned you about bothering mockingjays and their nests, didn't I?"

I nod slowly. "You did."

She squints at me with professional concern. "When's the last time you slept?"

"At all, or thru the night?"

"Is the answer the same?" My silence tells me all she needs to know. "Get in here."

I trudge inside as though I were in a fog. The last time I was here, I took in every detail with accuracy and precision; now I can't tell what color the walls are painted, how many beds there are, or if the floor is wood or carpet or marble.

"You can't do your job if you're delusional and sleep-deprived," Sage says as she grabs me by the elbow and drags me to one of the patient beds. "So you're gonna stay here for a night, and get some shut-eye, or I'll have to put you out of your misery in a more permanent way."

I don't even wince at the threat. "Can't sleep."

"You can and you will," she says, yanking back the sheet and steering me over. "I can give you something for now – just for the night, because you are clearly in some dire straits – and you're gonna rest that crazy little brain of yours." She gentles the smallest bit. "You can die from lack of sleep, Anath. And my record won't hold with you pulling that off on my watch."

I stumble into the bed, and I don't think I've ever felt sheets this cool or comforting. The pillow sinks beneath me and I can't stop the sigh that passes my lips. Sage smirks and turns away, coming back in seconds with a small tablet.

"Put this under your tongue," she directs. "And you'll be out in less than a minute."

"She hates me," I mumble.

"Who hates you?"

"Katniss," I say, taking the tablet and following her instructions. It tastes like mint. "She hates me."

Sage shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. Katniss save her hate for the few who truly deserve it… that's why Alma Coin hasn't been walking around arm-in-arm with Coriolanus Snow. Same thing with her trust."

"It was an accident," I grumble, the edges of my vision starting to go blurry.

"I believe you," she says, taking my wrist in her hand and checking my pulse. "She may not know you from any other reporter or writer or whatnot, but I know you didn't mean harm. All she saw was someone hurting the person she loves most, and she lashed out. Katniss isn't exactly known for thinking before acting."

"Need to 'pologize." Now my words are slurred and I can barely keep my eyes open.

"Later," Sage's disconnected voice says. "Peeta will be fine, and Katniss will spend a second to think, and y'all can have your little reunion. Later… after you sleep…"

I give up the fight.

And I'm back in district 4. I'm back at the shore, with my feet buried in warm sand and the salty smell of the ocean on my tongue. Seagulls wheel above me, their shrill cries like shrieking girls. This is my home, my beautiful home, and peace swells thru my veins. I can breathe again.

I hear laughter and look towards the sound; my heartbeat quickens. I see my mother, my older sister, my baby sister – exactly as they were before the war took them away. They're playing in the surf, far enough that I can't see their faces but still hear their voices. I watch them, feeling like my heart could break with the sound of my little sister's giggles; my older sister shrieks with laughter as she gets splashed, and my mother is smiling wider than I've ever seen her. They all look so alive, so beautiful and alive.

I lunge forward, trying to run towards them, but my feet are buried deep in the sand. I can't move. I can't speak. I can only watch as they all chase the surf, leaving me behind, running further and further away. At some point, I can't hear them anymore, and they disappear.

The taste of salt is on my tongue, but I don't know if it's from the sea or my tears.


End file.
